Fallen Angel
by Anna Emna
Summary: Sally never forgot that night when she was six years old. The night when a dark-haired angel with silver wings fell in her backyard.


Sally wasn't like many six year old girls. She didn't care for dolls, or pretty dresses, and she didn't want to wear makeup or be a princess. She was the little girl who played in the mud, who got her overalls dirty just to annoy her mother, and who bit that Anderson boy for throwing glue at her head. In other words, Sally was tough for her age, and she knew it.

Which was why, when she heard a deafening _CRASH_ in her backyard at the dead of night while her parents were out, instead of calling the police like any little girl her age should, she got out of bed in her favorite dog patterned pajamas to investigate, her curly hair sticking out in every which way as she plotted down the stairs towards the back door. Just as she was reaching a short hand towards the handle, she stopped suddenly, an abrupt thought crossing her mind. _It might be nasty, whatever went boom._ Quickly retreating from the door, she promptly sauntered up to the kitchen counter, grabbed a rolling pin, and ran back up to the door quickly in case whatever made the noise ran away, pulling it open with the formidable rolling pin at ready. What she saw, was something so… _fantastical,_ that if someone went up and told it to you, you'd laugh and dismiss it as a child's story. There was a huge crater in her lawn, three meters wide and about a foot deep, and dead center of that crater, lying unconscious, was a pale man with dark curly hair and a tattered black trench coat. Of course, that was not what Sally noticed; no, what Sally noticed was the rather glaring fact that the man had wings. Twenty feet long in wingspan _at least,_ spread out around him, and the most beautiful shade of iridescent silver that seemed to glow and throw off pieces of the moonlight in little winks. Sally gawked, open-mouthed, and, slipping on her sneakers as quietly as she could, and soundlessly tiptoed down to the place where the man with the beautiful wings lay, rolling pin dangling at her side in her loose clutch. She reached the crater, careful to avoid the wings, until she was right above the man and staring him in the face with her wide dark eyes. She guessed he was sort of good looking, not like the delicate sort of handsome she imagined princes were, but sort of like she imagined Robin Hood, or the other thieves and rogues she read about in her story books. Tentatively, she knelt down, careful not to make even a cheep, and reached one finger towards the base of one wing, just to check if it was real, not metal or plastic. Her finger was an inch away, just as she heard a deep voice right next to her,

"Bit rude isn't it, touching someone's wings without permission?"

Sally jumped back violently, rolling pin at ready, her heart beating quickly as she prepared to hit him as hard as she could. The strange creature was awake, his eyes a shade of silver only slightly darker than his wings, and they were glinting with sardonic amusement, his thin mouth curled upward in a smirk, voice slightly mocking,

"You're brave for a human child. Aren't you going to call the police or your mother?"

Sally stared at him, rolling pin still tight in her grip, though she lowered it slightly, and spoke in a haughty manner,

"Yeah, I'm brave. 'sides, if I called the police or my mum they'd take you away to a zoo or somethin' for having wings. Why'd'you have wings?" "

The creature raised an eyebrow, ignoring the question and eyes narrowing, zeroing in on her face. Sally stared back hard, hardly flinching.

"And suppose I attacked you? Were you not worried about that?"

Sally shrugged,

"Got this. I would've beat you up with it." She said condescendingly, raising her rolling pin menacingly.

The man merely chuckled derisively, making an attempt to sit up by placing both hands on the ground and bracing himself with his elbows, straining as he felt the ache in his body. He sighed as he made it up, Sally moving away to avoid the wings as they flexed outwards, drawing an unintentional breath inward as she saw them in their full glory. It looked as it they were glowing in the moonlight, catching every beam and throwing it around every perfect feather, the metallic luster gleaming as if moonbeams has been melted and poured over them. Sally stared at the beautiful sight, eyes huge,

"Are you an angel?"

She partially whispered, breathless at the sight. The creature smiled at the childish question, the light of his wings illuminating his face, reflecting in his eyes to make it seem as if they were gleaming,

"Of sorts."

He half chuckled in his resonating tone, making him seem all the more mysterious. Sally however, would not let up, merely crossing her arms (rolling pin still in her hand), and speaking in a commanding tone,

"If you're an angel, why'd you fall down?"

The "angel" looked at her, letting out a vague sniff and muttering in a contemptuous tone,

"Heavenly politics. Leave it at that."

Sally frowned,

"What's a polly-tick?"

"Something not to get involved in."

He murmured offhandedly, attempting to pick himself off the ground. He gingerly placed his legs under him, holding both arms out for balance as he gradually lifted himself into a standing position, giving his wings a few flaps for good measure. Sally felt the wing buffeting her face and blow her hair back as the moonlight shimmered and danced wildly on the wings like fresh raindrops. She watched, spellbound, as he gave a few flaps and was still. Sally kept staring, until he looked at her with a raised eyebrow,

"Are you frightened?"

He said, looking her solidly in the face, searching her for any sign of fear. Sally shook her head vigorously,

"'m not frightened of anythin'."

She said self-importantly holding her head high and looking the angel man in the eyes. The man chuckled cynically, brushing off the tattered remains of the trench coat, while Sally tucked the rolling pin under her shoulder and looked up at the starry night, then back at the man with wings,

"Do angels have names?"

The angel looked at her, eyebrows furrowed,

"Usually, why?"

"You got one?"

Sally asked bluntly. She had never been very polite, even when her parents told her too. The angel raised his eyes as if to look at his forehead, as if to remember something, then back at her, sounding a bit thoughtful,

"Yes, I do, but I don't think it's physically possible for humans to pronounce it. I'm not one of those well known ones that get their names in human tongue. Bloody prats." He looked though in thought for a second, before looking at Sally with an inquisitive stare,

"What do you think I should be called?"

Sally blinked,

"Am I allowed to choose a name for an angel?"

"Fallen angel, actually, but yes, you may chose what _you_ want to call me. Doesn't really mean I'm going to keep it, if that makes you feel any better."

Sally didn't really care, but she wanted to call the man something nice. She didn't really know what to call the angel. She had named her cat Boo, but she didn't think she wanted to call the angel "Boo". She thought of a name she rather liked, and had always wanted to meet someone called that. She didn't see why not.

"Can I call you Sherlock?"

The man chuckled,

"If that's what you like."

Sally looked at him for a moment.

"'Kay."

She looked at him for another moment, before putting down the rolling pin and crossing her arms again,

"Mummy says angels that fell down are demons. Are you a demon now?"

The angel man let out a snort,

"Oh, that's only that ones that switched sides to Lucifer, I was cast out over something minor."

"What was it?"

Sally asked earnestly. The newly named Sherlock chuckled,

"It was nothing. I few demons were in the vicinity and I didn't thwart them. Heard later they tempted a group of humans into murdering each other- why am I telling you this? Does your mother have a phone?"

Sally didn't know what half the words the angel called Sherlock said meant, so she just nodded,

"'t's inside. C'mon."

She beckoned and went back into the house, the man furling his wings in so he could fit through the door. He quickly caught sight of the phone and strode towards it, when Sally called after him,

"Mister Sherlock?"

He turned impatiently, looking a bit irritated, feathers ruffling a bit,

"What?"

"Can I have something so I won't forget you?"

He raised an eyebrow,

"Why?"

"I saw a movie where a girl went to a lovely place, but she forgot when she grew up."

"You're afraid you'll forget an angel falling in your backyard?"

She nodded sincerely, looking him right in the face. Sherlock seemed to consider this briefly, before looking thoughtful.

"What would you li- oh! I suppose that would work…"

He muttered, more to himself than Sally, as he slightly unfurled one wing, and plucked a long, silver feather half the size of her arm, and handed it to her. Even in the house, it glowed slightly, and Sally smiled, satisfied.

"There, is that good?"

She nodded happily, holding the feather delicately in her hands,

"Who're you going to call?"

She asked. Sherlock-angel only smiled,

"No one. I'm going to find them."

And with that, he picked up the phone, and was gone. No flashy lights. Nothing. He just was there one second, and then he wasn't. Sally blinked. The feather was still in her hand. Hastily, she ran back up to her room and took out her pencil box. It had no pencils in it, she had lost them a while ago, but it was shiny and black with some cloth coating the inside, was flat, and just the right size for the feather. Her mother had given it too her; it was actually an old necklace box, but her mother didn't need it anymore so she gave it to Sally for school. Carefully, she placed the feather in the old box, and shut the lid tight, placing it under her pillow for good measure. Now she would never forget Mister Sherlock. And she didn't.

She'd always remember that night. The night when an angel fell in her backyard.

Sergeant Donovan stared out the window of her flat in London. Freak was gone now, wasn't he. Not dead of course, she wasn't stupid. If that weirdo could fall from Heaven, leave a crater in her yard, and survive that, a building would pose no threat for him. So naturally, she had been able to see right off that that body wasn't Sherlock. Eyes were clouded; the eyes of one would had been dead for ages, which wasn't right, but the DNA checked out as his, passed all the tests, everything. Would been easy enough she supposed. Pick up a phone and vanish, create a fake body… wasn't that far of a stretch. She held the silver feather to the day, watching it move the sunlight and make it dance as it always had. She had never forgotten that night, the night that proved angels were real, no matter how much she wanted to forget. She had watched how he interacted with the rest of the police when Lestrande introduced him to the rest of the force, heard as he greeted her coldly with no trace of recognition in his silvery eyes. Everything about him just about confirmed he was the same angel: the easy grace in which he walked (glided was the better word), the slightly condescending manner he spoke in, and, if that wasn't enough, she swore she caught the faintest outline of drawn in wings when he stood in full sunlight. No one else seemed to notice, so she didn't mention it. As she got to know him more, she realized he was not only alike in manner and looks, but personality as well. He was the Fallen Angel who let a band of demons force people to slaughter each other, and she wouldn't be surprised if he had watched and enjoyed it. Half the time she suspected he might kill someone himself one day. What did one call a supernatural creature that may or may not start killing innocent people? A Freak. So that was what he became in her eyes. A freak of a Fallen Angel dwindling on going full on demon. A freak was what he was, a freak was what he would always be. Did that stop her from secretly wishing she could see those exquisite, beautiful wings again? Not really. Did that stop that small pang of jealousy when she saw him taking to the doctor so fast? By no means. Did it get rid of that insufferable, but un-releasable hope that clung to her in her chest that hoped despite itself, he would one day remember her? Not by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps he didn't forget. Maybe he just didn't recognize her. Hard to, after twenty years, she reasoned. She put the feather safely back in its case and placed it under her pillow, where she had always kept it. It was unlikely he would ever recollect her, but it was a dream that had clung to her nonetheless, after all those years.

She knew he was an ancient celestial being and all, but she would have liked to think that he had enough decency to remember the first human being to have ever to set eyes on him.


End file.
